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Mol/y. — Frontispiece. 

He’s Coming . . . We are Saved ! Saved ! Saved ! 


Molly, 

The Drummer 


Boy 


A STORY OF THE REVOLUTION 


BY 

HARRIET T. COMSTOCK 


Slowly the mist o’er the meadow was creeping, 

Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun, 

When from his couch, while his children were sleeping. 
Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun. — Holmes. 



PHILADELPHIA 

HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY 


67190 


I Librttai ^ of Con^ f aa 

‘^0 Coflti HtauEO 

OCT 27 1900 

Copynght entry 

3fl|{L'VA'A<^oo- 

StCi'ND COPY. 

Ot MweftK* to 

OKOtK O'VISION, 

OCT 30 1900 



Copyright, 1900, by 
Henky Altemus Company. 



Oo 




A Word Before Beginning 




P <sS'. 


- *■ .i' ' 


OLIvY was an odd name for a boy, you will 
say, especially for a soldier boy, and a 
brave one at that. But before you can un- 
derstand, you will have to read my story. When 
you have finished I feel quite sure that you will 
do what I did after reading the bit of old history ; 
give a hearty thought of thanks to the brave 
drummer, who, during the war of the Revolution, 
passed like a gleam of brightness, fun — and alas ! 
sadness through the scenes of war and bloodshed ; 
winning the friendship of all, the esteem and 
consideration of General Washington himself, and 
lastly a page or so in history. From the past I 
lead you forth, oh ! hero of long ago, and present 
you to the hero and heroine lovers of to-day, feel- 
ing sure that a warm welcome awaits you. 

Harriet T. Comstock. 




Molly, 

THK DRLJMME^R BOY 

CHAPTER L 

HOW DEBBY LOST HER FATHER. 

B efore there was a Molly, there was a Debby 
Mason, and with her we must deal first. 

One July morning, over a hundred years ago there 
stood in a forlorn room of a log house in Plymouth, a tall, 
severe looking woman in rich apparel, and a ragged desperate 
child of fourteen. On the floor in a drunken stupor, lay a man. 

‘‘See, lass,” said the woman, “there lies thy father quite 
drunk. Look at thyself; in rags thou art, and shamefully 
neglected.” 

“But I love my father !” Debby blazed forth, “and when he 
awakens who, pray, is to care for him if I go away?” 

“But I tell thee, child, he hath joined this wild crew who are 
headed for Boston, and thou wilt be turned on the town.” 

“ ’Tis a lie!” screamed the girl, “he did not know when he 
promised. He would not leave me, but even if he did he would 
come back, he always does !” 

Mrs. Lane paused, not knowing how further to explain the 
truth to the wild child. 

“Lass, hear me, for thy mother’s sake I am trying to save 
thee. I never knew her story, but she was a lady. In meeting, 
thy case hath been considered, thy father is no longer to be tol- 
erated in the town, he must go, and I have taken thy care upon 
myself.” 


6 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


Debby stared in bewilderment, then slowly the truth dawned 
upon her. 

Old Thomas Martin had been ordered from the town, and 
poor Jack bound out to Elder Morris. It was quite plain, her 
father was to go also, out into that somewhere of silence and 
absence, and she was bound out to Mrs. Lane like a slave ; she, 
proud, free Debby Mason! 

“I won’t go with you !” she shrieked, ‘T’ll go with father I He 
loves me, and, and beside 1 promised mother !” 

Just then the man upon the floor stirred and roused; after 
many exertions he sat up. One look at his little daughter and 
Mrs. Lane steadied him. 

“Good morning!” he smiled foolishly; “I’m afraid I’ve taken 
a drop too much again. Debby, child, don’t take on so. I'm 
going away so that I won’t disgrace you any more. There’s 
going to be trouble sure as you live ,and I’m going to fight. If I 
come back, lass. I’ll be a man.” 

He arose clumsily and stood before the woman and girl with 
downcast eyes. Debby grew white to the lips. 

It was true then. He was going away. After all she had borne 
and suffered for his sake, he was turning his back upon her, 
leaving her to fare as she might. Little poor Debby knew of 
patriotism, or the new talk of war and a republic; she had not 
even that hope to help her bear this blow. 

Just then, down the street came a straggling company of men 
and boys headed by a drum and fife. As they drew near 
Mason stood straighter and taking from the wall a rusty gun, 
staggered to the door. Mrs. Lane drew Debby back. 

“Come on. Mason,” called the men ; “if they don’t want you 
in Plymouth, you’ll soon be wanted out yonder. There’s plenty 
of room in Boston for men like you and us.” 

Mason reeled on. Debby could not let him slip from her with- 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


7 


out one more struggle. She broke away from Mrs. Lane and ran 
after the swaying figure. 

“Father !“ she cried, “take me with you ! I love you ! I love 
you ! Remember what mother said !“ 

The man stood still, sobered for a moment by that magic 
name. 

“Lass,” he whispered putting his arms about her, “all they 
said in the meeting was true. Fm going to be a man, so help me 
God for her sake and yours — or I won’t come back !” 

“Come on Billy!” yelled the crowd, “Deb can do without 
you !” 

Clinging to her father poor Debby’s rage and despair rose. 
She shook her fist at the laughing mob. 

“You’re a mad lot!” she cried, “the whole town is mad to 
take my father from me. I curse you all ! I curse you every one 
for what you have done !” 

The men laughed loudly. 

“Bring your drum. Deb, and come along,” called one. “You 
need not part with the old man. You’re as good as a lad any 
day, and a better fighter I swear than your daddy. Come on and 
drum us to victory.” 

Debby stooped and picked up a stone, then flung it into the 
crowd. An oath came from the man hit and in the excitement 
Mason, with bowed head joined the yelling rabble. 

“Shame on thee, lass !” cried Mrs. Lane laying firm hands on 
the sobbing girl, “who would ever think thy mother was a 
lady? The town hath done well to try and save thy soul and 
body. Thou art possessed of a devil. Follow me !” 

The door of the wretched home was closed. Nothing mat- 
tered any more. Meekly enough Debby followed her rescuer up 
the hill to the white house on the top. Poor Debby ! in the neat 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


home, with plenty to eat and decent clothing she was absolutely 
miserable. 

Since her mother had died five years before she had led a 
wild uncared-for existence. Among her father’s rude compan- 
ions she had shared food and drink, when there was any, and 
had gone hungry and cold without complaint when times were 
hard. 

In Mrs. Lane’s well ordered life and home, she was a worse 
outcast than amid the poverty and shame. There she had at 
least the love of the poor wretched father who, when he was 
sober, remembered the past, and lavished affection upon her. 
With Mrs. Lane she was watched, distrusted and whipped for 
misdeeds, and under the new order of things her soul and body 
were in a very bad way indeed. With a burning longing 
she fretted in silence for news of her father, but how could she 
hope, in Mrs. Lane’s loyal home, to hear of the doings of the 
wild rebels who were defying their King and his laws ? 

It mattered little to Debby whether her father was Whig or 
Tory, no matter what he was she hungered for him day and 
night. 

There was one other thing Debby hungered for, that was 
her drum; it had been her one childish toy, the treasure of 
lonely years. 

She had always longed to be a boy, and her drum was the 
concession her father had made to her desire. 

Upon it he had taught her to beat so clearly and in time, that 
she had become famous among his boon companions. 

But there was no place in Mrs. Lane’s house for such an un- 
maidenly thing, and to save it from destruction, Debby had hid- 
den it behind the old home in a bit of woodland. Thither she 
sometimes ran when life pressed hard, and with muffled sticks, 
beat frantically upon the blessed comfort. 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


During the year which dragged drearily away after Mr.. 
Mason left the town, Debby learned to do some useful things in 
her new home, and she grew straight and tall and strong; but 
her heart was hard and bitter. Strange as it seemed though, in 
all her misery in the prim existence, she remembered her mother 
clearer than ever before, and snatches of old talk and scenes 
came sharply to her mind. 

It had not always been such a sad life as Debby had last 
known with her father. Once the home was neat and cosy, and 
dimly an old story, — a story never finished, floated through the 
girl’s mind. 

“Some day, child, when thou art older,” it was the mother 
who had spoken, “I will tell thee of my home. Perhaps we’ll 
write a letter, they may like to see thee, little lass. Try to be a 
lady, dear, then they will not be ashamed of thee.” Things grew 
confused as Debby tried to think, but there was one night that 
was ever clear. It was the last night of the clean happy life. “Be 
a lady, Debby child, and whatever happens stay with 
father like a good maid. Save him, dear, he was a fine man once. 
He will tell thee the rest of the story some day.” 

How vividly Debby remembered clinging to the poor mother 
and sobbing out the promise to stay with father. After that 
scene all was confusion and misery. The untold story was never 
finished or asked for. Uncared-for and neglected poor Debby 
became an outcast among decent children, and the butt of the 
reckless ones. 

And so it had gone from bad to worse until the town had 
ordered Bill Mason from the village of his adoption, and had 
bound Debby to Mrs. Lane for five years. 


CHAPTER IL 


DEBBY TAKES HER OWN WAY. 

D eborah?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Hast thou aired thy bed and prayed in private, 
•earnestly seeking forgiveness for thy sins of yesterday?” Mrs. 
I>ane came down the long hall and eyed with disapproval the 
girl sitting idly on the top step of the porch. 

A sullen look passed over Debby’s face. “I’ve aired my bed,” 
answered she. 

“And humbly besought pardon for thy sins ?” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“Why not, Deborah?” 

“Because I haven’t been sinning.” 

“Child, thy soul is in danger of eternal punishment!” 

“I don’t care.” Debby had suffered so much in various forms 
during her short life, that the subject had ceased to interest her. 

She never trembled as did the well cared for little Puritans, 
over Elder Morris’ prayers. His lurid descriptions rather 
charmed her. There seemed no doubt in Plymouth but that Bill 
Mason was doomed, and where her father went, Debby wanted 
to go too, consequently no threat could touch her. 

At the hard words Mrs. Lane grew more rigid. “Eor thy 
mother’s sake I have sought to save thee,” she said, “I have 
even tried to trace her family for I believe they were of better 

stock than thy vagabond father, but I fear me, lass, that thou 
10 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


11 


art an evil hearted wench. Neither hell fire or earthly love can 
move thee. Mistress Knowles hath told me that over and again 
thou art seen with Jack Martin ; thou art a shameless one !” 

“Jack was my only friend when all the other boys and girls 
turned on me, ’tis not like Fd forget Jack.” There was a dan- 
gerous flash in Debby’s eyes. 

“I forbid thee ever speaking to the rascal again. Dost hear?”" 

“Yes.” 

‘Wilt thou obey?” 

“No.” A cruel blow almost threw Debby from the porch. She 
gathered herself up and turned a set, white face to her mis- 
tress. 

“Now go to thy room, Deborah, for the love of thy soul have 
I chastised thee. After evening prayers to-night I will come ta 
thy room. If thou art repentant, I will overlook thy insolence,, 
but mark my words, dost thou -repeat the offence, girl, I will 
lay the rod across thy shoulders, until I have conquered thy 
spirit. During the day,” she added, “think of thy mother, and of 
how she would have grieved o’er thee.” 

Debby had had a hasty answer ready for Mrs. Lane, but the 
last words quieted her. Silently she shuffled to her room on the 
second floor far to the back of the house. Closing the door she 
sank down near the window and began to think in real earnest. 
The day wore wearily away. Strong, energetic Debby chafed 
under the enforced idleness. She thought of her mother, and hot 
stinging tears filled her eyes. 

Here was her chance to be decent and respectable slipping* 
from her, while she was growing worse and worse. She thought 
of her father away somewhere — where, she knew not, though 
she had pleaded with Jack Martin to try and find out. What was 
the poor, weak father doing ? 

Perhaps he was dead, and she would never see him again! 


12 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


That thought always made her strong young body quiver. Bits 
of strange talk, always hushed when she drew near, came to 
her now in those long hours of imprisonment. Rumors of a 
battle at Lexington where the farmers had dared face the 
King’s men. It had never occurred to Debby before, but per- 
haps her father was among those brave men. Or, perhaps, he 
had been at the later battle of Bunker Hill, and had fallen 
fighting in the unequal struggle, as so many other rebels had 
who dared to resist King George. 

Debby hated the King for no better reason than because Mrs. 
Lane worshipped him. If she had only been a boy she would 
have fought against him simply to spite her mistress. 

The tall clock on the stairs, after plodding through the 
weary day, at last struck seven, and the early gloaming began 
to settle o’er the little town of Plymouth. 

From below the droning voice of Mrs. Lane arose, lead- 
ing the evening devotions. How Debby loathed that service. In 
half an hour Mrs. Lane would mount the stair, rod in hand, to 
settle her account with the imprisoned sinner, and in half an 
hour, at a certain woods of which Debby knew, that rascal Tack 
Martin would be in waiting with any possible knowledge he 
might have gleaned of her father, and in return be given a les- 
son on the drum. Jack had warlike aspirations and Debby was 
fitting him to take his place, with her drum, to serve where her 
sex prohibited her going. Poor limited Debby ; no one ever knew 
what the sacrifice meant to her. 

As the hour struck she rose restlessly. Of course she must 
meet Jack, but she did not care to encounter the eyes of Mistress 
Knowles, who, if she ever sought forgiveness for her own sins, 
did so when all Plymouth slept. 

Suddenly the girl started up, her strong rosy face full of fun. 
Why had she not thought of it before ? 


MOLLY THE DRUMMER BOY. 


13 


She ran to the closet and mounted a short ladder; from the 
space between the ceiling and the roof she dragged down a 
bundle and flung it upon the bedroom floor. Then she worked 
rapidly. 

The bundle consisted of a suit of boy’s clothes made of rough 
fustian. It represented all the money earned and given since she 
had lived with Mrs. Lane. 

Jack Martin had procured the outfit, never asking a question 
about the strange purchase, though at the time he was con- 
sumed with curiosity. 

For a month it had lain in its hiding place, having been 
brought forth once or twice at midnight, and donned in silence, 
that Debby might know the unholy joy of making believe she 
was a boy. 

She now dropped her trim gown and skirts upon the floor, 
and drew on the rough suit. Up went the curly brown hair 
under a three cornered hat, and lo ! in the soft gloaming stood 
as sturdy and brave a lad as one need wish to see. 

‘‘And now !” laughed Miss Debby doubling her fists at an un- 
seen foe, “come on you old cat of a Mistress Knowles, there is 
another rascal in town to-night who would like nothing bet- 
ter than to close your eyes for a week or so !” 


CHAPTER TIL 


ALL THAT WAS LEFT OF DEBBY. 

I T was no great thing for Debby to clamber from her bed- 
room window to the ground below. She had done it more 
than once with her skirts on; in this approved apparel 
anything seemed possible, anything but being a lady. That hope 
was done with forever. She had crossed the line now. Before 
her lay — she hardly knew what — but the thought chased the 
fun from her face. 

Ah ! Debby, misguided little maid, as you turned your back 
on what your dead mother had wished you to be, she was per- 
haps nearer to you than ever before. With tears filling her dark 
eyes, the girl fled along. Down the long hill and across the 
meadow which lay behind the old deserted log house and 
divided it from the woodland. And there at the edge of the 
woods stood Jack Martin awaiting his belated comrade. 

He saw the boy approaching and was filled with alarm at 
the sight. If Debby came now how were they to get out of the 
scrape ? 

“Hello!” he shouted to the oncoming stranger, “whither 
away so fast?” 

“On the King’s business,” panted the boy as he drew near. 
Jack gasped. 

“Your name?” he faltered, “and pray what business have you 
with me?” 

“Robert Shirtliffe is my name, gaby, and I arrest you in the 

14 


MOLLY THE DRUMMER BOY, 


15 


name of King George the Third as a traitor to your country and 
for trying to corrupt the mind of one Mistress Deborah Mason, 
a young and innocent maid !” 

“My God !” gasped Jack; and sank upon the Autumn leaves 
at his feet. 

Then such a peal of laughter rent the air that the birds stirred 
in their nests. 

“Oh! you coward!” panted Debby. “A gallant soldier you 
would make. Any Tom, Dick or Harry could arrest and carry 
you off like a sack of meal. I vow I’ve a mind to give you no 
more lessons on the drum. ’Twould be just making it possible for 
you to fall into prison. A drummer boy, indeed, Jack Martin. 
Better don my gown Sir Babykin, and let me go in your place !” 

Jack had arisen in his anger and chagrin and now stood 
glowering before Debby. 

“Shame on you, Debby Mason!” he cried, “a bold jade you 
are and a disgrace to the village!” Then eyeing her closer he 
added, “but a fine, handsome lad you look, girl. I doubt if your 
own father would know you. But I have half a mind not to tell 
you the news to pay you for this unmannerly prank.” 

“And I,” mimicked Debby, “have half a mind to tell the 
meeting of your bravery.” 

“I’ve taught you to read. Deb, when the schools shut their 
doors on you.” Jack was capitulating, “and I’ve brought you 
the news. Beside,” with a resumption of his airs, “if you tell 
on me, how can you explain your own share in the business?” 

This reduced Debby to her proper place at once. “I’ll not tell. 
Jack, but what is the news? By your face I know you have 
heard much.” 

“Wait until you hear Deb. The battle of Lexington has made 
every man brave. Thousands of men joined the army at once 
and rushed on to Boston. They’ll drive every Britisher into the 


16 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


harbor!” Jack’s voice shook with excitement, “Yes ; every King’s 
dog of them shall die. But” — his eagerness waned — “there has 
been another battle since. The report of our men winning at 
Bunker Hill was wrong. But it was a glorious fight. On, on 
came the British with bayonets pointed, not one of our men 
flinched; when they came near enough they gave them volley 
upon volley. I tell you. Deb, every rusty gun spoke true that 
day !” 

“Oh !” gasped the girl, “oh ! if I were only a boy. Go on. Jack, 
go on !” 

“Well, they fought until their powder was all gone. Not a 
man fled ; when they could fire no more they used their guns for 
clubs, and rushed upon the foe !” 

Jack’s tones grew shriller as his feelings rose. “They were 
driven back, but they fought as they went, and they died with 
their faces toward the enemy!” 

“All of them?” panted Debby. 

“No.” Jack half moaned, “they are behind entrenchments at 
Prospect Hill. They have been there all Summer, but Deb, 
George Washington has been made General of the army, and 
he’s coming to get our men out!” 

“George Washington?” cried Debby, “why Mrs. Lane says 
he is the worst man she knows. I heard her tell Mistress 
Knowles.” Jack laughed, “Wait, lass, he’ll drive the British be- 
fore him. Elder Morris has had a letter from Abner Andrews. 
’Twas a wonderful letter. I listened at the door to hear it read 
when they thought 1 was feeding the cattle.” 

“Why, Jack,” Debby interrupted, “Abner Andrews went 
away when father went; does he — speak — of — father?” The 
question came slowly, it seemed to mean life or death to her. 
In the twilight Debby saw the excitement and flush die from 
Jack’s face. 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


17 


“Tell me everything, Jack Martin,” she groaned, “don't you 
hide a single thing.” 

“He was in Abner’s regiment,” whispered Jack. “He was 
wounded at Lexington, but not much. He doesn’t drink now, 
Deb, and he thinks of you a lot. Old Morris wasn’t going to 
let you know for he is afraid of Mrs. Lane; and there was 
something in the letter about wishing he’d told you the rest of 
a story for fear something might happen to him.” 

“Did he?” Debby braced herself against the tree, and in the 
dusk Jack, and all familiar things were blotted out. 

“Did — he — say — that ? And — he — thinks — of — me — and he 
does not — drink — any — more? Oh! father!” 

The year of suppression and heartache rolled away. From 
the almost forgotten past came the words : “Stay with father, 
Debby, like a good little maid.” 

Had she been a boy nothing would have kept her from fol- 
lowing, like a dog, at his heels. Drunk or sober she would have 
stayed with father. Out somewhere, alone and wounded, he 
was thinking of her, and trying to be better for her sake. 

And she ? why she was becoming a bad girl ; a girl who was 
whipped and half starved at times, yet never growing better. 

Should being a girl keep her longer from the only one who 
loved her and could make her happy? No, a thousand times no ! 

“Jack!” she sobbed, her eyes blazing, “I am going to father! 
I am going to be a drummer boy myself ! See to it that you keep 
my secret. If you tell, and I am brought back. I’ll, I’ll — but you 
won’t tell Jack, I know you won’t, not if they should drag your 
tongue out!” 

“Go!” cried Jack, ''you in that boy’s toggery? I won’t let 
you !” He stood in her path. 

“Won’t let me!” The girl towered above him in her anger, 


18 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


you stand in my way Jack Martin, I’ll knock you down! 
Where’s the drum?” 

Jack pointed dumbly to a clump of bushes, and stood aside. 

“If you go. I’ll cut too,” he cried at last. “What do you sup- 
pose this old town means to me without you and the drum?” 

“Well, follow lad.” Debby was fastening the drum round her 
body. “I reckon they will need all they can get; but here or 
there keep my secret. Jack, and in the end you will be glad.” 

“I promise. Deb.” Two hands clasped in the gathering 
gloom, and then without giving the accustomed lesson, the new 
jecruit ran through the little wood, and so was lost to sight. 

All who went away, took that direction ; once clear of the 
town instructions as to how to proceed might be asked; just 
now there was nothing to do but run. 

Back to the village, with bent head and empty heart, strode 
Jack; and up in the little back room of Mrs. Lane’s orderly 
house, lay a heap of crumpled clothing; all that was left of 
Debby Mason who was soon to be known as the black hearted 
ingrate, too evil to be followed and striven for. 


CHAPTER IV. 


AND NOW WE COME TO MOLLY. 

F ootsore, weary, and hungry, a boy beating upon a 
drum, entered the headquarters of the bedraggled 
army entrenched on Prospect Hill. 

“What do you want?” asked a man on duty. 

“I wish to join the army and fight the foe. I can drum.” 

“I hear that you can. Stop the clatter, wait until your ac- 
complishment is needed.” The boy put the drum gladly down. 
“What’s your name?” 

“Robert Shirtliffe, sir.” 

“Age?” 

“I’ll be eighteen soon.” 

“You look much younger. Where do you come from?” 
“Plymouth.” 

“You come with your family’s consent?” 

“No one had an objection to offer, sir, we are all patriots.” 
“You wish to enter the service as a drummer?” 

“With your permission, sir.” 

“Well, I will enter your name, and make further inquiries 
later. You’ll probably be ordered to New York, Washington 
needs more troops. You look strong.” 

The boy drew himself up painfully. “I am strong,” he mur- 
mured, “and I’m not afraid of work.” 

No further investigation was made. The country too sorely 
needed men, and so Robert Shirtliffe became a drummer in the 

19 


20 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


American army, an enemy to his King, a traitor to the old order 
of things. When he first went among the soldiers, he shrank 
from the unusual scene. 

“Hello ! Molly,” called one, noticing his hesitation, “where’s 
your mother?” 

Robert shrank back as if he had received a blow, the others 
roared with laughter. 

“Oh ! don’t flare up, boy,” said the speaker, “the army’s full 
of Mollys or Betsys, when your beard comes we’ll call you 
John.” 

Robert breathed again, and took his place among the men. 
But the name clung to him. His beard came not, and he could 
only hope that by some brave deed he might efface the title. 

Not long after he had enlisted he was sitting, with some 
others, around a camp fire trying to forget, in the grateful glow, 
how hungry and cold he was, when suddenly a bit of conversa- 
tion riveted his attention. 

“Any one heard of old Mason yet?” asked one. “I heard that 
General Lee had tried to trace him to thank him for his brav- 
ery.” Shirtliffe drew nearer : “I used to know an old fellow by 
the name of Mason down Plymouth way,” he said, “a poor 
drunken old chap.” The words came slowly, and with an effort. 

“They say this old fellow drank like a fish before he enlisted ; 
something has sobered him up since.” 

“What did he do that was so brave?” Shirtliffe asked the 
question as he bent nearer the fire. 

“Why you see it was this way; when the folks ’round Bos- 
ton made up their minds that the King did not mean to grant 
their petition, they hustled their stores and ammunition to Con- 
cord. Old Gage got wind of it and sent eight hundred men to 
stop them, and bring everything back, Samuel Adams and John 
Hancock into the bargain. But the King’s men were too late; 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


21 


Adams and Hancock were out in the country raising a devil of 

row and stirring folks up. 

“Just about that time Revere and Dawson started out, and 
then Mason got his blood up and said : ‘Now whose going to 
lead and stand by the bridge with me when the British come ?’ ” 

“And how many stood by him?” Robert’s voice shook, and 
his ruddy face paled. 

“About a hundred and thirty.” 

“Thank God for that ! But oh, if I had only been one !” There 
were tears in the boy’s eyes. 

“Never mind, Molly, you’ll get your chance. The new coun- 
try will have to claim much good blood before it wins. The 
British have us fast and tight in here now. If General Washing- 
ton doesn’t come soon God help us all !” 

“Go on about Mason,” Robert interrupted, “news doesn’t 
reach down our way.” 

“Well, Mason and his men waited by the bridge, but the 
British didn’t come. So they separated and agreed to gather 
when the drum should announce danger.” 

“Oh ! if it had only been my drum ! Oh ! if I had only been in 
time !” A sob shook the eager voice, “but go on, go on, I am a 
fool to stop you.” 

“About five in the morning the drum rang out, but only 
seventy men stood by Mason then. Up came Pitcairn with his 
fellows. ‘Ye villains!’ he shouted, ‘throw down your arms!’ 
He spoke to them as if they were dogs, but Mason and his band 
stood firm. Pitcairn then aimed his pistol and yelled ‘fire !’ Six- 
teen of Mason’s party dropped like one man.” 

Shirtliffe staggered to his feet, “And afterward, when it was 
over, where was Mason ?” 

“Everyone thought him dead. He was seen falling, but he 
was not among the killed, nor among them who got away. A 


22 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


good many beside you, Molly, would like to know where the 
brave old fellow is to-day.’’ 

Robert turned from the group, one thought filling his mind ; 
he must find Mason ; until he had done that nothing mattered. 

The camp was in great excitement. Floating rumors came 
now and then to the effect that General Washington was on 
his way to rescue them, but nothing definite could be learned. 
Cold weather and lack of food had caused much suffering dur- 
ing the Winter, and all that kept the patriotic hope and life 
together was the possibility of the new General getting there in 
time to save them from the British, then holding Boston, should 
they descend upon them in their weakened state. 

Robert, inured to cold and hunger, had borne up under the 
seige wonderfully, he was stronger than many, more able to 
undertake a difficult or dangerous task, he then, must exert 
himself to find the missing hero and bring him back to honor 
and reward ! 

Day after day the desire grew upon him, and he sought in 
various ways to elude those in command, and get out upon 
the roads leading to Boston and see if he could find any trace of 
his man. One day he succeeded in escaping the watchful eye of 
a sick and half-frozen sentry and gained a road upon which he 
had never been before. It was a bitter day in March, and to keep 
his blood in circulation, the boy stamped his feet and beat his 
hands noisily as he went along. Suddenly a voice checked him : 

“What — you — doing, hie — give the countersign — hie — or 
I’ll shoot!” Robert’s heart stood still. A little beyond, by the 
roadside, leaning heavily against a tree for support, stood 
Mason, the hero patriot, the long lost man whom even General 
Lee wished to honor ! 

But a sad spectacle he was now. Half drunk, his old Conti- 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


23 


nental uniform in rags under a long English great coat, and a 
British officer’s cap set sidewise on his matted hair. 

Seeing Robert pause and gaze, the sentry by the tree gained 
dignity and staggered toward him, then he laughed : “You were 
long enough in coming, lad,’’ he said, “I’m nearly frozen. What 
you doing in those togs?” he questioned, looking sharply, 
“changed your ideas with your clothes and want me to follow ? 
Lead on. I’ll be glad enough to get back to American quarters. 
Got some whisky?” He came quite close to Robert now, and 
a queer light grew in his dull eyes. 

“Wha — at’s the matter — hie, going to turn your back on me, 
after what I’ve told you? You look more than ever — hie — like 
jny girl. Come give us a drink !” 

Shirtliffe saw that Mason mistook him for some one he knew, 
and was puzzled. 

“Don’t you — don’t you know me ?” the boy asked in a broken 
voice. 

“Of course I know you Captain Morley, even in those clothes, 
-come boy, pass out your flask.” 

“Come with me,” groaned Robert, “how did you get among 
the British after your splendid deed?” A blur passed over 
Mason’s eyes. His senses became more muddled. 

“Get here? You ought to know better than I, captain, hie — 
hut I’m not going to tell you anything more, hie — until I get 
whisky. Good whisky you’ve got and plenty of it. I’d sell my 
soul for a drink.” A half sob choked the words, and Mason’s 
hands stretched out in piteous pleading. 

Robert turned his head away, bewilderment and horror keep- 
ing him silent. 

“Some day, lad,” Mason was crying openly now, “I want 
you to go to Plymouth — and — find — Debby — pretty — Debby 
Mason. ’Pon my soul she’s enough like you to be your sister, — 


24 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


hie — I wonder if it — could — be — possible — but no, it could not 
be. Here — give me a drink, Tm choking — what — what was 
your mother’s name lad? I’ve been trying to ask you that ever 
since I first saw you. Whisky ! whisky ! quick !” 

“Sentry, who goes there?” A clear young voice startled the 
shivering drunkard and Robert alike. 

“I told you not to drink until I got back, I trusted you. What 
have you got, a prisoner?” Down an embankment by the road- 
side a young man came half running, half sliding. As he drew 
near, the two in the road gazing upon him in speechless sur- 
prise. 

“God help me !” groaned Mason, “there are two of them !” 

And Robert saw before him in British uniform, one so like 
himself that the resemblance made his brain reel. 

“What ails you both?” the new comer asked, “staring like a 

pair of idiots at me as if ” his eyes rested on Shirtliffe and 

he staggered back, “'who are you?” he questioned, “and what 
in heaven’s name do you want ?” 

“I’m an American,” Robert’s voice sounded like an echo of 
the other’s, “and I’ve been looking for him” — pointing toward 
Mason, “I’m going to take him back to where he belongs. 
You’ve kept him drunk since you took him prisoner, and made 
him a traitor to his country, but I’m going to save him. Let us 
pass !” 

“Not so fast my gallant rebel,” laughed the young Britisher, 
“you American gentlemen are worth keeping ; your information 
is valuable. The old patriot there, was willing to talk for 
whisky. Now what’s your price, you come fresh from head- 
quarters?” he placed himself insolently in front of the pair and 
folded his arms. 

“Stand aside !” said Shirtliffe, in low tense tones, and, laying; 
his hand on Mason’s arm he took a stride forward. 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


25 . 


‘'You might as well let us go, Captain Morley,” Mason’s 
puzzled face turned from one to the other, “I don’t — know — 
what’s come over me — I can’t think clear, but something tells 
me to go — with this — one,” he clung childishly to Robert’s, 
hand. 

“And I say once again, stand aside,” Shirtliffe’s eyes were 
dangerous, “you Britishers have no price which will buy some 
of us. From this poor weak fellow you have succeeded in get- 
ting information, but it was a coward’s trick; he is loyal still 
at heart, and he goes back with me!” 

“You rascal !” a stinging blow in the face made Robert stag- 
ger, but only for a moment. The strength which had thriven 
upon neglect and Puritan rigor, blazed forth at the insult, and 
with unlooked-for power he flung himself upon Morley. 

Mason grew soberer as he stood looking at the struggle Sa 
alike were the two that but for the difference in dress, one could 
hardly have been told from the other. 

Was it a dream? Old memories came flooding o’er the man’s, 
weak brain, and his eyes cleared. 

“Stop!” he called in a voice shaken with agony. “My God! 
boys, stop until 1 can think!” 

But the two combatants paid no heed. Blows fell thick and 
fast, and the breath came hard. Morley’s trained muscles had all 
they could do to stand up against Robert’s blind fury. Then, 
too, Shirtliffe was slightly taller, and he used that advantage 
well. 

“Surrender !” hissed Morley through clinched teeth. 

“Never!” Robert’s voice quivered and broke into a sob. 

“Then by heaven, in the name of the King !” Morley sprang 
from his antagonist and drew out a pistol, “die like the traitor 
that you are !” 

A sharp report rang out. A stinging pain in his left hand 


26 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


made Robert reel, but he forgot it when he saw Mason, who 
had run toward them in a last effort to separate them, sway and 
fall over. The ball which had gone through Shirtliffe’s hand 
had found a resting place in the old man’s breast. 

“Coward !” shrieked Robert^ ‘T was unarmed then kneel- 
ing beside Mason he moaned, “he is dying ! Leave us alone, he 
comes from my town, I have something to say to him.” 

The pleading face touched the young Englishman’s heart. “I 
only did my duty,” he muttered, “but Tm sorry about him. Re- 
member you are my prisoner, if I leave you for a time, may I 
trust you to remain here?” Robert nodded, and Morley strode 
away. When he had passed from sight Shirtlifife bent his head 
over the whitening face upon his knee. Kisses and tears he 
showered upon it, and the touch brought consciousness back to 
the dying man. 

“Lad,” he whispered, and Robert saw that he still mistook 
him for Morley; “go to Plymouth and find Debby Mason. Tell 
her that her father died — like — a — soldier. Tell her only that. 
Don’t let — her — know — that I failed — I tried for — her sake — 
but I failed. I always failed. Then there was” — the weak voice 
trembled, “something I wanted to tell her. but I can’t remember 
all. Her mother had a twin sister, as like as you — and — my girl ! 
It is so strange, so strange, where is that other lad?” 

Shirtliffe almost dropped the heavy head upon his arm. “Kiss 
me ! Kiss me !” he sobbed, “oh ! do not leave me !” But Mason’s 
life blood was gushing out and he was going fast. “Quick,” he 
gasped, “when I am dead, they will give Debby a chance — they 
always said if I — were out of the way they would look out for 
Deb and her mother — I’ll soon be out of the way” — a wan 
smile flitted over the ghastly face; “there’s no one now, but 
Deb.” 

The evening shades were beginning to close in the dull March 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


27 


day, and in the gloom the dying man raised a last look to the 
face so near his own. For one moment near things lost their 
hold upon him; he was back in the old life with his neglected 
little girl. “Debby, child, Fve been drinking again, to-morrow 
ril tell you the story. Kiss father, Deb, and good night!’’ 

The rigid upturned face seemed the only thing in God’s uni- 
verse to the boy looking down upon it. 

‘‘Good night !” he sobbed, kissing the icy lips — “good night, 
good night !” 

The words died away on the chill wind. Robert stood up 
and turned his face toward the direction Morley had taken, 
“and now I must wait,” he sighed. 


CHAPTER V. 


WHILE MOLLY WAITED^ HE LISTENED. 

S HIRTLIFFE waited beside the road, until the 
pain in his hand turned him sick, but Horley came 
not. 

Then a strange fear crept into his numb heart. Suppose he 
should faint and be found unconscious by either friend or foe ! 
The thought made him dizzy. He must hide. If he were con- 
scious when Morley returned he could come out to meet him, if 
not — well in that case he were better out of sight. Painfully and 
slowly he clambered up the embankment and crouched behind 
a rock hidden among underbrush. 

Then he drew forth his hand to examine the wound. One 
look, and he lay as dead to sight and hearing as the man by 
the roadside below. 

The cutting winds of the IMarch evening swept o’er him. 
Morley returned, and not seeing his prisoner gave a sneering 
smile and hurried away. Still, Robert lay among the bushes 
heeding not. 

But at last he revived, and turned vaguely about, a voice from 
the road fell on his ear, it was not Morley’s voice. 

“The fellow’s dead, I tell you. Shot through the breast. It 
looks like an American’s nasty trick. Morley was to watch this 
road to-day. I wonder where he is ?” 

A second voice drawled out : “Morley’s too young to be given 

much rope, he needs watching. As for those rebels, my Lord 
28 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


29 


Howe is too lenient with them. Fll shoot every one at sight 
from this day on. Are you rested Dick, by Gad ! we must hurry 
on with the news, and bad news it is.” 

“I could go on,” replied the first speaker, “though every bone 
is aching, but look at the horses.” 

Shirtliffe peered over the ledge and saw a sorry pair of horses 
jaded and panting and near Mason’s body stood the riders, 
travel stained and weary. They were Britishers and had evi- 
dently ridden fast and far upon important business. 

“While we wait,” said the man called Dick, “let us carry this 
man behind the bushes since we cannot bury him. I wonder if 
there is anything on his body to identify him by. Here lend a 
hand Norton and search the old fellow.” 

Robert shuddered. 

“There’ll be little time for burying,” said the man addressed, 
“when Washington and his ten thousand men make for Dor- 
chester Heights. 

“Fourteen thousand,” broke in the first speaker, “yes ; there’ll 
be hot fighting. I wish every reb was as stiff as this one, and 
that we were back in England. What was that?” The two men 
started nervously as a stone rattled down the embankment. 
Robert, in his excitement at what he had heard, had made a 
misstep and dislodged it. 

The listeners could take no chances, however. “Speak or I’ll 
fire !” called the older man whose name was Norton. Shirtliffe 
leaned over and showed himself deeming it the safer action. 
The men saw him and in the waning light took him, as Robert 
desperately hoped they might, for Morley. 

“Hello !” cried the man called Harding, “what are you doing 
there, Morley, hurt? you’re as white as a sheet.” 

The strange resemblance was to serve him well, now, if only 
the Englishmen were not too intimate with the real man, and 


30 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


the darkness and his keen talent for mimicry would help him 
out. He must chance it at any rate; so slowly descending he 
made his way toward the men. 

“By jove !“ laughed Harding, “he’s in Continental dress, his 
officers say he’s always up to some deviltry, what are you doing- 
now, Morley?” 

“On the King’s business !” answered the boy clinging to the 
shadow of the hill. 

“While you have been riding for days to find out Washing- 
ton’s movements. I’ve gleaned information nearer home.” 

Norton looked searchingly at him. He had heard of the dare- 
devil boy Morley from others in camp, this was his first en- 
counter. “You could hardly get your news from yon dead 
Britisher,” he said, “perhaps you will be kind enough to explain 
yourself and your new uniform.” 

“Oh ! the uniform is all right.” Robert gave a dry laugh, “it 
got me inside the American lines. As for him” — the boy gave 
an agonized glance at the dead man,” he is no Britisher. Look 
under his coat and see what uniform he wears.” 

They bent and turned back the long coat, and sure enough 
there was the tattered Continental suit, which, during his time 
of backsliding. Mason had had neither chance or inclination to 
change. 

“Upon my soul !” cried Harding springing to his feet,” this 
looks like mischief !” 

“I was trying to capture him” — Shirtliffe’s thoughts had 
never been clearer, and his words seem to flow unconsciously, 
— when a cowardly knave fired at me” — 

“From ambush?” asked Norton keenly. 

“How else?” Shirtliffe replied, “but as I was saying, when 
the ball went through my hand I saw my prisoner falling; I 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


31 


quite forgot my own hurt until all was over, then I went up the 
bank to” — 

“Here’s some water, Morley,” Harding interrupted, taking 
the thing for granted, and producing his bottle, “you’d find 
little water up there, everything’s frozen stiff. Let’s see your 
hand, boy. There is mischief on foot, and we must hurry on.” 

Shirtliffe, keeping his face turned as if wincing at the touch, 
gave the wounded hand to the young officer. 

Every moment was precious. The real Morley might return 
at any minute, Robert did not know he had come and gone — 
and although he had promised to wait until his return, under 
the circumstances he must try and get away, and not be taken 
into the camp of the Britishers and presented to them who knew 
the true Morley better, and to Morley himself. That would 
mean sure death, and in Robert’s breast lay a secret which 
would give life and hope to the suffering army of men in Gen- 
eral Lee’s command. 

“You shiver like a girl, Morley,” laughed Harding, as a ner- 
vous tremor went over Shirtliffe’s body; “the men in your 
regiment have talked of your nerve; it can not all have oozed 
out of this little hole. There, I’ll wrap it in my handkerchief un- 
til you get to the surgeon. Better go on slowly, we’ll overtake 
you. You look fit to faint.” 

“Perhaps Morley better take one of our horses and ride on ; 
he’s lighter than you or me. My horse is about done for, and 
can go at a trot at the best.” Norton looked sharply at the boy, 
“The sooner you get back to your own officers, the better, lad, 
you’re too young to be trusted far ; you’ll get into mischief yet. 
Go as fast as you can, tell General Howe that Washington is 
advancing with fourteen thousand men. His aim is at — ” 

“Yes, yes,” Robert broke in, for a rustling among the dead 
leaves, added to the pain in his hand, made him quiver. 


32 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


“I know, Dorchester Heights, you forget I have listened too 1 
Which horse ? Quick ! anything more ?” 

He sprang to the saddle, and the tired horse jumped as the 
weight touched his sore flesh. It was none too soon. The rus- 
tling among the leaves was no scurrying animal, as Shirtliffe, 
with bowed head dashed on, Morley on his return beat, came up 
to the group : 

‘Aly God !” cried Norton and Harding gazing open mouthed 
at him. 

“Who was that riding away so fast?” asked the new comer, 
a sickening sensation creeping over him. 

“It was — it was — great heavens! how do we know! We 
thought it was you, Morley!” The boy ground his teeth; “It 
was an American,” he hissed. 

“And by thunder !” roared Norton, “we’ve sent him into his 
own camp with the news of Washington’s advance, on the only 
good horse among us !” 

The situation was too much for the three men. In silence 
they gazed into each other’s faces and grew sick with apprehen- 
sion. 


CHAPTER VI. 


HOW MOLLY BORE THE NEWS, 

ITH lowered head, and throbbing nerves, Shirt- 
liffe dashed on in the direction of Boston, but as 
soon as safety permitted he turned the jaded ani- 
mal, and breaking into a woodland road, retraced his steps, 
and with a sobbing appeal to the disappointed brute, struck out 
for the American camp. 

“Good horse !” he pleaded, “get me there in time ! only that 
and then we shall both rest !” '4 

For one moment he thought of the quiet figure by the road 
which he was leaving forever, but he dared not give a second 
thought. Wrapped in the costume of two countries, poor Bill 
Mason might, or might not find a grave dug by stranger hands ; 
be that as it might it was now the duty of Robert Shirtliffe to 
bear to the suffering, hopeless patriots the news for which they 
were yearning. 

What were his hopes and sorrows now ? 

It was in his power to put strength in sick bodies and joy 
into hundreds of sad hearts ! 

Oru on, plunged the great brown horse. Night fell, and the 
moon shone calmly down on the tired boy urging and coaxing 
the animal to its uttermost. The distance, by direct route, from' 
where Robert had left the men, was probably not over seven or 
eight miles, but in the wood road, it was longer, and to the ex« 
cited boy the miles seemed endless. Every noise made him chilt 

33 



MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


and hot in turns. A feeling of weakness frightened him. He had 
fainted once that day, God keep him from another attack ! At 
last he reached the American lines, and a sentry stopped him. 
He gave the countersign and dragged on. 

A strange dizziness came over him as he neared his destina- 
tion. He had never known such exhaustion before. A laugh 
startled him, and he was even more startled to realize that it 
was his own laugh. 

“This must be death,” he thought, remembering the death he 
liad but lately seen. “I can not think clearly.” Then he knew 
that he could not wait to reach General Lee’s headquarters, 
and oh ! he had wanted to so much ! He must make the best of 
what time and strength he had left. 

“He’s coming!” he shouted sitting upright in the saddle. 
■“Washington and fourteen thousand men ! \Yc are saved, saved ! 
«aved I” Again the wild laugh, his laugh, made him shiver. The 
horse too, took fright and dashed ahead forgetting its weari- 
ness. 

“He is nearing Dorchester Heights ! Hear me ! hear me ! We 
are saved, we are saved ! Ha 1 ha 1 ha !” 

Hear him? Why the world had heard. 

White, haggard faces clustered about him. Lean hands 
clutched at the bridle of the foam covered horse. Torches 
flashed from every quarter, and questions poured upon him. 
Only one answer he returned, “Washington is near. We are 
saved. I swear to God !” And every time he repeated the words 
they became more distracting until he laughed and sobbed 
them out again and again. 

“See, he is falling! Some one catch Molly, God bless the 
boy!” The faces clustering around him faded into a quivering 
circle of white; the torches flickered and went out; an awful 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


35 


agony took possession of his last conscious thought, — he was 
dying among all those men ! 

* * 

“Just a drop more, lad, now put back your head.” Shirtliffc 
swallowed the burning drop, and felt it thrill through his cold, 
numb body. He was too weary to open his eyes or to care what 
became of him, but suddenly a voice from among the others 
first startled, then stilled his breath. 

“He comes from our town. Let me take him — I tell you we — 
were — ^boys — together !” Robert opened his eyes. Near by stood 
a new volunteer, ragged, pinched and worn. They were con- 
stantly working their way into camp, but the sight of this one 
caused Shirtliffe both joy and despair. 

He smiled feebly into the anxious face of the boy pleading to 
be allowed to care for him. 

“Hello ! Martin,” he whispered, “I’m all right. When did you 
get in?” The men standing around, seeing that the fainting 
spell was over, turned to join the excited groups and discuss 
Robert’s wonderful news. Sick men had become strong, weak 
hearts, brave, and over the entire camp a joyful atmosphere of 
expectant waiting pervaded everything. 

Seeing themselves comparatively alone, Shirtliffe motioned 
the new volunteer nearer. 

“I’m Robert Shirtliffe,” he whispered, “call me Bob, you can 
remember that?” 

“Yes,” replied the boy, “and oh ; but I am glad to see you 
Bob !” 

“That’s right,” Shirtliffe gave a half laugh, “if you ever 
think you are going to forget. Jack Martin, run away or do 
something — you understand?” 

‘^Ye— e— s Bob!” 

“Did you have a bad time getting here ?” 


36 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


“Ye — es. Bob — Fve been trying for months. Have you 
found him?” Jack bent closer. In the darkness he could not see 
Robert’s face, but he felt the boy grasp his hand, then a hot 
tear startled him. 

“What’s— the— matter— Bob ?” 

“Bend down. Jack, let me cry just once. He’s dead. Jack, 
■dead ! He was shot by a Britisher who looks so like me, that I 
have got to find him. There isn’t anything left in all the world 
Jack, except for me to find the other boy!” 

“Some one is coming! Here, Bob — laugh, swear, — do any- 
thing, — but cry.” 

Robert sat up, and threw off the blanket which thoughtful 
hands had laid over him. The man approaching was an officer 
and had come to thank the boy who had ridden so nobly and 
so well to bear the welcome news ; but ere he reached the crouch- 
ing pair upon the ground a volley of distant firing rent the still 
air. Again, and again it came. 

The men listened until the truth broke upon them. The rumor 
was indeed true, the seige was over, the new general had come 
in time to save them ! 

Shirtliffe never received the thanks of the approaching offi- 
cer, the universal cry of “Washington” from those hundreds of 
weary, ill-fed men was return enough for all that he had dared 
and done. 

No one thought much of him during the next few days. He 
recovered with the care of the new recruit, Jack Martin — as well 
as might be expected, and the excitement kept up his spirits. 

The relieving army marching toward the Heights of Dor- 
chester made themselves heard by their continuous firing. The 
sound put new life in the hearts of Lee’s men and the men shut 
tip in Boston, but it made anxious the beseiging Britishers. 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


37 


There was to be no skirmish this time. This meant battle, and a 
big one. 

Lord Percy, after receiving the news which had been delayed 
by Shirtliffe bearing it to the enemy, set his men in order and 
proceeded to Castle Island. He intended opening battle upon 
the afternoon of his arrival, but a great storm came up. The 
wind blew and the rain fell and a thick fog covered all. My 
Lord Percy thought best to wait until the following day before 
beginning the attack. Washington, who ever made his successes 
out of other men’s failures, lost no time. He went among his men 
personally, exhorting them to avenge the Boston Massacre of a 
year before, and drawing a vivid picture of the waiting patriots 
now looking to them for aid. His words fell on eager and will- 
ing ears. All the day and night of the terrible storm they 
worked and planned; strengthening their fortifications and 
planting their guns in favorable positions. 

When Lord Percy looked forth after the storm he beheld such 
an imposing defense that all thought of an assault was aban- 
doned, and my Lord Howe was driven to the sad extremity of 
giving up Boston to the foe. 

But Washington was noble in his bloodless victory, he per- 
mitted the British to leave the city without an attack, providing 
they did not burn the town. 

To this they consented and on the 7th of March they sailed out 
of the harbor. On the 20th of March, Washington entered the 
city at the head of his army and was greeted, as perhaps no 
other general had ever been before, by the ragged loyal men 
who had suffered so bravely for the good cause. 

It was at this point that a serious question arose between 
Robert Shirtliffe and Jack Martin. 

Washington’s first step after entering Boston was to make 
stronger its defences, and among the men appointed to assist in 


38 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


the task, was the regiment in which both the boys served. Jack 
was well pleased at the idea of not being sent far from all that 
had meant home to him, but Robert had but one desire left — he 
must find Moriey! Mason’s dying words rang in his ears day 
and night, and the strange resemblance meant a mystery he 
must fathom. After that? — well nothing mattered after that. 

“But I say,” Jack pleaded, “after all I went through to find 
you, it’s a burning shame for you to go away.” 

“If I live. Jack, Til soon be back. I’m sure to find Moriey and 
then — there will be nothing left but for me to come back.” 

“Suppose you should get hurt again? You need me.” 

“I have thought of that,” Robert’s face grew serious, “I 
think of that all the time, old fellow, and there is only one way. 
If I am hurt a little, I can bear it — alone — if it means a big 
thing — I have this!” And Shirtliffe drew out a pistol he had 
recently gotten. 

“You dare not I” cried Jack in startled tones, “if you talk like 
that I’ll— I’ll tell!” 

“No you won’t, you’ll stand by me to the end, even if I am far 
away. I won’t do anything foolish, but I’m going to find that 
boy. I’ve got to. Jack. His life and mine is all confused, and 
I’m going to try and find out. It may help Debby Mason, ypu 
know. I’d rather like to help Debby;” a quick smile lit up the 
boy’s earnest face, “the folks in Plymouth town did not think 
much of Debby, but I’d like to save her from — Mrs. Lane, and 
give her one more chance. Shake hands, old friend, when I come 
back we’ll go and find Debby Mason together.” 

Silently Jack gave his hand, and the two parted. 


CHAPTER VIL 


A STRANGE CHRISTMAS. 

R obert SHIRTLIEEE sat beside a frozen streambind- 
iiig a cloth around his frosted feet. The shoes were in 
tatters, and the bare flesh showed through the gaping 
rents in many places. His clothing, too, was worn and thin and 
but poorly protected him from the cutting blast. As he bent 
over his painful task, for one moment his strength faltered, 
and he almost wished that he had gone back to New England, 
with the other men whose term of enlistment had expired, and 
whose faint hearts had not been loyal enough to again pledge 
themselves for further service. The wish was but a fleeting one. 
Go back ? What had he to go back for ? All that he had in life to 
look forward to, lay near — if it existed at all. Eor during the 
time which lay between his leaving Boston and now as he sat 
beside the Delaware river in New Jersey, Shirtliffe had not 
seen, or heard of Morley. But even with the memory of dis- 
appointment and bitter suffering to keep him company on this 
Christmas eve, Robert was proud to think that he had been one 
of the three thousand men who had remained with their glo- 
rious leader. Eor never was general loved by his soldiers, more 
than was Washington. What they suffered, he shared. When 
their hearts grew faint, by his inspired courage he lifted them 
to new heights of loyalty and hope. Where danger threatened, 
there was he at the front. His massive form a target for every 
enemy’s bullet, and a mark of nobility for his followers. From 


40 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


afar Robert had seen and worshipped. In his young heart the 
love for this great man amounted to a positive passion. To 
serve him, though his services might never be known, was the 
daily wish of the poor New England boy. The wish was strong 
within his heart now and helped to keep back the stinging tears 
of agony which lay near his tired eyes. 

The men with whom he had been tramping in search of food, 
had gone on ahead, and Robert sat alone. Presently a step star- 
tled him, and he glanced up. Down the shadowy road, leading 
his weary horse, strode a tall figure with bowed head, and mov- 
ing lips. The boy on the path sprang up, all pain and misery 
forgotten ; he stood ready to salute, for well he knew that gal- 
lant form. Never before had he been so near. The moment was 
fraught with keenest joy. But the approaching man saw him 
not. He was praying. It was no new thing for Washington to 
plead for help from a mightier power, all his men knew, and 
honored him, for his childlike faith. 

“Bless us with wisdom in our councils, success in battle, and 
let our victories be tempered with humanity. Endow, also, our 
enemies with enlightened minds, that they may be willing to re- 
store liberty and peace. Grant the petition of thy servant for 
the sake of him thou hast called thy beloved Son ; nevertheless, 
not my will, but thine be done. Amen.” 

The splendid head was raised and in the gloaming the clear 
eyes rested upon the boy saluting by the road. 

The great general paused : “Good evening lad,” he said, “ his 
but a sad Christmas time for young boys like you.” 

Robert tried to reply but his voice failed him. 

“Were you wishing for home? You look ill and worn. I will 
send you back.” 

“No, no, sir!” Shirtliffe found strength at last, “I was but 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


41 


binding up my feet, my shoes are not thick enough for these 
rough roads, but I am strong and loyal !” 

Washington smiled, and then looked pityingly down upon 
the wrapped foot, the blood already was showing through the 
new bandages. 

“Here, my son, take my handkerchief,” he murmured, “it 
will help until you can procure better, and take this coin ; when 
it is possible, buy strong shoes.” 

Robert accepted the gifts with flowing tears, and put them 
in his breast. 

For a moment there was silence, then the deep voice added, 
“The Marblehead fishermen are down the river about five miles,, 
could you reach them in an hour with a message?” 

“Yes, sir,” Robert’s chance had come. He would deliver the 
message in an hour or die in the attempt. 

“Well, simply tell them we are ready.” 

Robert bowed, saluted, and then stifling a groan as he hur- 
ried away on his bleeding feet, he ran into the gathering twi- 
light and was lost to sight. 

In less than an hour he had reached his destination. The 
Marblehead men understood the message. They had done splen- 
did service in the war before when bravery on the water was 
needed, they were ready now. They set to work to get every 
boat in their possession in readiness and all that night and the 
next day, soldiers on horse and foot advancing from every 
direction made for the river. The plan had been worked out in 
secrecy, and now upon this Christmas night the entire army 
enlarged by recent reinforcements was to be ferried over the 
icy Delaware in order to attack the British in Trenton on the 
morrow. It was a mighty and daring attempt, but not a patriot 
questioned the leader who had planned it. For ten hours the 
brave fishermen rowed to and fro in the darkness bearing their- 


42 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


suffering loads. But, — even while many were frozen — and all 
endured untold agony from exposure and scanty covering, not a 
complaint was heard to pass the brave lips. The army was 
divided in three parts, but with joy Shirtliffe saw that he was 
in the command under Washington which was headed for a 
spot nine miles above Trenton, from which point they were to 
bear down upon the unsuspecting Britishers, then making 
merry over their Christmas cheer. Shivering and crouching in 
the stern of one of the boats, Robert thought of all the Christ- 
mas nights he could remember. There had been a few which 
had been bright and joyous — but this one so full of pain and 
loneliness, was the proudest one of his life. 

The division under Washington reached the opposite shore 
with slight delay, the others were less fortunate, but by eight 
o’clock the next morning Washington’s command and one 
under Sullivan dashed down upon the astonished Britishers, 
who were just resting from their revels, and shook the town by 
their yells and shots. 

The maddened Hessians sprang to line and tried to resist 
the oncoming foe. Wild excitement prevailed, and above the 
whizzing of shot rose the triumphant shouts of the ragged, half 
frozen patriots. In the thickest of the fray rode always the 
mighty commander, his clear voice calmly calling out orders, 
and his steady hand pointing his sword. With eyes ever fixed 
on that brave form, Shirtliffe stumbled and struggled after, 
hoping that standing or falling, at the end he would not be far 
behind his hero. And anotlier thought mingled with that, — he 
must keep one bullet, in case he fell badly wounded, — he never 
forgot that. 

The fight was fierce, but short ; in an hour a thousand of the 
foe were begging for mercy; the others had fled toward Bor- 
dentown at the first alarm. 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


43 


So Washington gathered his forces in Trenton and the Brit- 
ish fell back to Princeton. Cornwallis then took command deter- 
mining that the “old fox/’ meaning Washington, should not 
find him napping and get away, he, the great Cornwallis meant 
to put an end forever to the exploits of this daring rebel ! And 
indeed it seemed likely that he might be successful for sickness 
and cold were enfeebling the patriot army day by day. Their 
splendid courage strengthened by their late victory bore them 
up during the after days of suffering, but Washington realized 
that he must act promptly and wisely if he wished to hold what 
he had so hardly \von. 

He could not recross the river. His proud spirit quailed at 
the thought of retreat, but to engage in another battle just 
then might mean ruin. In his extremity he called a council of 
war. 

“Cornwallis is advancing,” he said calmly, “our skirmishing 
lines have but driven the British back this afternoon. At day- 
break the attack will be renewed. There is but one thing for us 
to do.” The eager men listened breathlessly. The glaring red 
torch lights showed their faces pinched and wan. What was it 
Washington wanted them to do? Every man was ready to 
do it ! 

“We have but five thousand in camp,” the calm voice went 
on, “we must leave to-night, make a circuit to the east, pass the 
enemy’s flank, and miake an attack upon the detachment in 
Princeton before Cornwallis can return to help them.” 

A mighty cheer went up. Robert from his place wedged in 
among the excited patriots, glowed and thrilled as he heard the 
daring plan. This was a general worth following. 

A man to be loved ! 

“But” — he was still speaking, though the shouts had 


44 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


•drowned, for the moment, his voice, ‘‘there is one thing more to 
do, and for that I want volunteers.” 

Robert’s heart almost choked him. Could there be any deed 
too great for him to undertake? 

“While we steal away under cover of the darkness, others — 
perhaps fifty — must remain here to keep the fires burning and 
by beating the drum at intervals, deceive the enemy. At sun rise 
you may try to escape and join us. If you are taken it will prob- 
ably mean death! Now who volunteers?” 

The rich voice fell with a sad cadence, and for an instant no 
one spoke. Then, “I! I! I !” forty or fifty men disentangled 
themselves from the mass and pressed nearer. And from these 
a slim boyish form stepped close to Washington. 

“Sir!” he said simply, “I have been a drummer since the war 
began, may I remain?” 

For a moment Washington eyed the boy. 

“I remember you,” he said, “you have served me before. 
You are young to attempt this service. There are enough 
without you.” 

“But sir, I can drum !” 

“So he can,” called out a man from the crowd, “no one can 
drum like Molly !” 

“And you wish to remain?” the general asked. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Your name, my lad?” 

“Robert Shirtliffe.” 

“Age?” 

“Seventeen.” 

“Your home?” 

“I come from Plymouth, Massachusetts.” 

“Have you parents ?” 

'“I have no one sir.” 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


45 


“You are a brave lad, and worthy of your country. Report 
to me as soon as you can” — the clear eyes grew misty — “you 
and these other loyal fellows shall be rewarded according to the 
quality of your sacrifice.” 

They saluted gravely. Then the stealthy arrangements began. 
Silently through the night, the men marched away bearing the 
stores and ammunition. 

On their beats the British sentinels marched to and fro, feel- 
ing sure of the enemy. 

And during those long solemn hours a handful of men kept 
alive the fires in the deserted camp, and a weary, but unflinch- 
ing boy, beat almost constantly upon his drum. His feet pained 
him piteously and his stiff fingers could barely grasp the sticks, 
but his heart was staunch and true. As the night wore away his 
exhausted brain grew unsteady. All memories came to haunt 
him, and fill the empty hours. 

He saw a still form beside a lonely road, he heard the last 
words of the dying man, “Go to Plymouth and find Debby 
Mason, tell her that her father died like a soldier !” 

He could never find Debby now, perhaps. Ere another day 
had passed he too might be lying dead. He might never find 
the boy for whom he had searched since he left New England, 
never know the story ! 

Something like a sob mingled with the drum beats. 

March British sentinels at your posts ! 

Behind those gleaming camp fires is a weak foe indeed. See ! 
the morn breaks, the handful of men, forgetting the boy, have 
already departed to rejoin their comrades, only the faithful 
drummer remains ! 

Sleep well, oh ! my Lord Cornwallis your last peaceful sleep 
for many a weary night. The old fox has caught even you nap- 


46 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


ping and is now well on the way to intercept the force which 
you are so confidently expecting. 

Beat the drum bravely, Molly my boy ! See the sun is tinting 
the far east. Go with the others. Your task is done, and in the 
future loving hearts will arise to call you blessed for this night’s 
work ! 


CHAPTER VIII. 


ANOTHER MESSAGE FOR DERBY. 

H e was alone! The others had departed. Washing- 
ton had said that at break of day they might rejoin 
the army. The sun was streaking the sky and a 
chiller air stirred the bare trees. 

Robert knew in what direction the army had gone, and, after 
eating the dry rations left over from his evening meal he hung 
his drum around his neck, and staggered away. His head ached 
dully and his body was stiff and sore, but he must not be found 
in the deserted camp. That would mean — certain death ! 

He laughed weakly, — certain death ! if he could only be sure 
of that he would not fear so greatly, but suppose he was only 
wounded — and carried away a prisoner? Ah! God! that he 
could not stand ! He pressed his hand against the pistol in his 
pocket, it was safe, — and his gun? Yes, it was loaded and in 
order. Sick and exhausted as he was he must make a break for 
safety. See ! the sun shone among the trees ! 

Was it too late? A new strength came to him with the horror 
of the thought, and he bounded into the shadow and made for 
the direction the army had taken. On, on he ran hearing as he 
went the movement and stir of a distant body of men. It was 
the enemy awakening to the daily duties, and the lines would 
soon be pushing forward. Robert’s brain reeled, and in coming 
to a cross road he paused to consider his course. There was a 
certain rock to guide him, but in his bewilderment and dazed 
condition he could not find it, and so took the wrong road. 

47 


48 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


“Who goes there?” The voice drove the blood from Shirt- 
liffe’s heart. After all this time, there in the lonely Jersey woods, 
he was to meet again the boy who had shot at him, and kdled 
old Mason in New England. 

“ ’Tis I,” he faltered, as the oncomer bore down upon him. 

“You!” Morley dropped the gun he had leveled at the foe 
and gazed in amazement at the face so wondrously like his own ; 
“you I here 1 My God I are you a ghost to haunt me so ? What do 
you want?” 

“I want to get back to my people.” 

“Back to your people, you rebel fool !” Morley laughed the 
old scornful laugh; “your people are behind you! You are run- 
ning away from them my brave lad. But it little matters, we 
have them tight and safe, come along with me, your people will 
join you later !” 

“If I go,” Robert’s voice rang clear, “you will have to carry 
me dead. When we met before I was unarmed ; like a coward 
you shot at me, and killed an innocent man. I am prepared now, 
let us fight honestly.” 

“Honestly?” Morley sneered, “much you know of honor. I 
trusted you once, and a nice trick you played me. I trusted the 
old fellow I shot, I put him on sentry duty, but he got drunk, 
the knave, while I turned my back. A fine lot you are, confound 
you !” 

“Again I ask you. Will you fight?” Shirtliffe straightened 
himself. Time was passing. He would have given anything in 
his power to have solved the mystery of the identity of the 
boy before him. But what had he to give? His life. There was no 
time to ask or answer questions now. It was his life or the 
young Englishman’s. He must protect himself and report to 
Washington if it were possible. He was young, and with all the 
misery life was sweet. 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


49 


"‘Fight with you?” again the maddening laugh,” fight a trai- 
tor? Surrender, or I promise you my aim will be truer this 
time.” Morley raised his gun, but Robert was as quick, and the 
two weapons pointed at the same instant. 

A flash ! a sharp report — and then, silence ! When Shirtliffe 
came to himself he was lying on his side across a fallen log. A 
dull pain throbbed in his left shoulder. He put up his right hand 
and felt that his coat was soaked with blood. The dampness and 
the pain made him faint, and again he lost consciousness. After 
a moment, though, the chill air revived him and he sat up. He 
would not touch the damp coat or think any more than was 
possible, of the wound, and perhaps he might get on to Wash- 
ington. That was his first connected thought. 

Then he remembered Morley. Where was he ? Gone perhaps, 
thinking he had at last killed his enemy. 

Well, the enemy was not dead. There might be time for an- 
other meeting, and an explanation. In the meantime he, the boy 
Washington had trusted, must try to gain the American ranks 
and claim his reward ! He arose, swayed, but gradually grew 
less giddy. 

He was young, and hope was stronger than his wound. 
Another effort; and this time he stood upright. 

How lonely it was ! The bleak wind swept among the gaunt 
trees making them moan and creak. If he should die there, who 
would ever bear the word to General Washington that he had 
faithfully performed his duty? 

No ! he must live, and get away from that fearsome place, the 
stillness was driving him mad ! 

“Help ! for God’s sake help !” It was not the wind moaning. 
Shirtliffe started. Again came the cry, “Help ! help !” 

Some one needed aid, he must find him and do what he could. 
Stumbling forward he reached a clump of leafless bushes, and 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


SO 

there, lying at full length where he had crawled after he was 
Avounded, lay Morley ! 

Forgetting all, but his pity for the dying boy, Robert knelt 
beside his late foe. 

He knew death when he saw it now, and in gentle patience 
he smoothed the curly hair from the clammy brow and waited 
for the last words. There was always something to be said. 

‘T thought you were dead that time!” Morley gasped the 
words, then gave a groan. 

‘‘Can I trust you with a message?” 

"‘Yes.” 

““Well, since there is no one else I must, for Fm — done — 
for !” Robert shuddered. 

“Write to Mrs. Deborah — Morley — Fountain Terrace — 
London — can you remember?” 

“Yes; yes.” 

“My mother! Tell — her — I — died — like — a — soldier, — like 
father !” Shirtliffe shook his head to free his eyes of the blinding 
tears. 

“Tell — her — ” the voice was but a whisper now, “that I did 
not find — Debby Mason, and if” — here the boy rallied and 
made a last effort, “if you ever go near Plymouth, find a girl 
named Deborah — Mason and say that — by going — or writing 
to my mother — all will — be forgiven. You hear me?’’ 

“Yes I hear.” The tears could no longer be shaken away. 

“Where are you?” the groping hands found and clung to 
Robert’s, and the boyish mouth smiled as sweetly as if the dear- 
est face on earth were bending over him. “Good bye,” he whis- 
pered, “ you won’t forget — anything? and I can trust you?” 

“You may indeed.” Shirtliffe bent and kissed the cold face as 
tenderly as a woman might have done. Reverently he clasped 
the slim hands over the still breast, and closed the lids upon the 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


51 


smiling* eyes. In the future he was to tell a heart-broken mother 
in England of how her boy died, and he thanked God for that 
smile. 

Under the wintry sun Morley lay sleeping, and beside him 
sat Robert, lost in dazed thought. There were two messages 
now for Debby Mason, and there was a report to make to Gen- 
eral Washington. He must be up and doing. But still he sat 
there with his eyes fastened on the young face smiling so placid- 
ly in its unbroken sleep. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE LAST OF MOLLY. 


"T ONG did Shirtliffe sit beside Morley, repeating the 
I V messages over and again. No fear of forgetting them, 
he could remember naught else. As the day wore on 
he began to realize his condition and he knew if he ever ex- 
pected to reach Washington’s army, he must move on. In the 
distance he heard heavy firing and the sound guided him. Pie 
felt sure that the Americans had met the reinforcements com- 
ing from Princeton and that a battle was in progress. The 
thought stirred his blood, and he struggled to his feet, gave a 
last glance at Morley and went on mumbling to himself, ^Well 
Debby Mason !” Weaker and weaker he grew and as his mind 
cleared, a sense of his danger absorbed him. Was this death ? 
This strange, unusual weakness ? At any moment he might fall 
and be unable to rise. 

The firing was growing less, the battle perhaps was over, 
fleeing parties of either friend or foe might soon be passing. 

Never had life seemed so precious, as now when it was going 
so fast. Dimly he recalled how he had saved one bullet for this 
hour, should he use it now? Oh! no. *‘Help! help!” he sobbed, 
falling on his knees, “help ! help !” He had walked further than 
he had realized, and the men who in the morning had left the 
deserted camp without him, later in the day missed him, and 
were even now searching the woods in hope of tracing him. 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


53 


They heard his weak cry from afar, and, guided by the second 
call, reached his side a moment after he had fallen. 

“It’s Molly!” said one of the two men who found him, “look 
at the blood !” cried the other, “the boy is terribly wounded.” 

“This is an ugly wound,” said the first, noticing the dry 
blood, “here, take his feet, Hall, let’s get him to the surgeon’s. 
He stayed behind to beat the drum, didn’t he ? Brave little chap, 
I suppose the devils found and shot him.” 

Very slowly and tenderly the men bore their burden to the 
rough field hospital, and the surgeons in attendance, after a 
hasty examination, said quietly: “The boy is done for; make 
him comfortable over yonder, there is nothing else to do for 
him, poor fellow.” Their hands were too full to permit of them 
wasting time over uncertain cases. 

So it was that Robert was laid upon a rough cot, covered 
with a coarse blanket and left to pass out of life as calmly as 
he might. One of the surgeons, however, did not forget him. 
He was a young man, full of ambition and was to return in a 
week to Philadelphia with a record of bravery and courage to 
cheer him during his furlough of rest. As he went about his 
duties, Shirtliffe’s white face haunted him, “There might be a 
chance for the boy.” he thought, “as soon as I can I will take a 
look at him again.” 

The opportunity came late at night, and then as quickly as 
he could he sought the bed upon which Robert lay. 

A nurse in passing saw him pause, and stopped to say, “Bob’s 
gone. Doctor Bell.” 

The surgeon bent over the cot. A smoking lamp shed a yellow 
light over the fair face on the coarse pillow. Fair it was, but 
not with death’s pallor. 

No breath seemed to come through the closed lips, how- 
ever, and Doctor Bell put his hand over his heart. 


54 


MOLLY. THE DRUMMER BOY. 


Then with a start he drew back! The nurse had gone on, 
he was alone ! 

Again he bent close. A faint flutter stirred against his hand, 
and under a bandage bound firmly around the body! 

Doctor Bell rose to his feet. “Nurse,” he said sharply, “help 
me bear this — boy — to my tent, Tm going to save — him !” 

It was the hardest struggle the young surgeon ever had. He 
gave up the long looked for furlough, and beside his other 
duties cared for and watched the boy in whom he had grown 
so interested. No hand but his operated on the ghastly wound, 
or touched the suffering body afterward. 

For two days Shirtliffe knew not what was passing around 
him, but on the third day at sunset he became conscious. 

Doctor Bell was beside him, his finger upon the weak pulse. 

As memory returned a puzzled, then a horrified expression 
grew upon Robert’s face. 

His eyes fastened themselves upon the physician’s bowed 
head, and a tremor shook him like a chill. 

“What will become of me ?” he groaned. 

“Nothing;” the calm voice filled the quiet place. 

“Get well now, as soon as you can be moved I am going to 
take you to my mother!” 

“But, but—” 

“It is all right. Trust me.” 

In a few days Shirtliffe’s splendid constitution regained its 
tone, and he began to improve rapidly. Then Doctor Bell 
further surprised those who had time to observe him by giving 
up his comparatively comfortable quarters to the lad he had 
saved from death. How Robert appreciated this considerate act, 
no one but himself could know. To meet the surgeon as seldom 
as he now did, was torture untold. He knew that he must speak, 
but day after day he put off the painful task. At the close of 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


55 


the second week, one day, Doctor Bell came in to make his ac- 
customed call ; he saw at a glance that Shirtliffe had reached the 
uttermost bound of endurance and with a courtesy for which 
his memory should be enshrined, he took the boy’s thin feverish 
fingers and said simply: 

“Your bravery and courage must win the respect of all. You 
have served your country nobly. Why you entered the army un- 
der a false name, you best know. I respect your reasons and 
thank you for the service you have rendered.” 

Robert bowed his head and wept over the friendly hand. 

“And now,” the sympathetic voice sank lower, “what may I 
call you?” 

“Just Debby Mason !” For a moment not a sound broke the 
silence but the sobs from the figure now kneeling at the feet 
of the doctor. 

Then very calmly the man’s voice went on : “Debby Mason, 
Washington has sent for you to thank you for what you did at 
Trenton. He will probably promote you for bravery; of course, 
you cannot remain in the army, it now is left for you or me to 
explain why an honorable discharge should be given you. 
Which one of us shall do it?” 

Poor Debby could face death, had done so many times ; she 
could bear cold and suffering but the idea of facing her hero 
and explain to him her awful deceit, was more than she could 
dare. But Debby was no coward even in this extremity, — avail- 
ing herself of one of the privileges of her almost forgotten sex, 
she found a new way out : 

“Write it for me,” she begged, half smiling through her 
tears, “write it all, then I will take it and bear my punishment 
like — a man !” 

“And afterward?” Doctor Bell questioned, “have you a 
home ? any where to go ?” 


I 


56 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


“No.” The one word echoed through the early twilight like a 
moan. 

“I had only one on earth to love — I followed him to the war 
— my father lies in an unknown grave near Boston — he died 
on my arm — but he never knew !” 

Something blurred the surgeon’s eyes. 

“And then,” in Debby’s low voice there was little left of 
Shirtliffe’s bravado, “there was one other, a young man in the 
British army — he looked so like me that my own father could 
not tell one from the other. That boy was looking for — Debby 
Mason — he died — by — my — bullet” — a dry sob choked the 
words — “but I have his mother’s address. I think — from bits 
of an old story — and from his strange likeness — that that 
mother will have something to tell — me. But” — and a shudder 
passed over Debby, “how can I break the news to her, that 
even in self defence — I took her boy’s life?” 

The broken talk had interested Doctor Bell so much that now, 
when the tale was ended he drew a long sigh of relief. His 
thoughts were becoming burdensome. Strange relationships be- 
tween British and American families were not as uncommon to 
his experience as to simple Debby’s. He saw in the girl before 
him a heroine of no every day romance, and he meant to see the 
end of it. She had become an object of absorbing concern to him 
during the last few weeks, and he did not intend to let her slip 
out of his life without an effort to restrain her. 

“I will write a full explanation, Debby,” he said, “we can 
trust General Washington’s good heart. After you have seen 
him, come back to me. I am going to take you to my mother, 
she is expecting you; and then we will write to England.” 


CHAPTER X. 


DEBBY COMES INTO HER OWN AT LAST. 

N ever while life lasted did Debby forget how she felt, 
when weak from recent illness and present fear, she 
was shown into the presence of Washington. 

She wore — for the last time — her continental uniform. It 
was mud stained, blood stained and ragged, but even so it was 
dear to her heart. 

In her hand she bore Doctor Bell’s letter. The contents she 
did not know, but she trusted the man who had befriended her 
— and she was ready to take the consequences of her wrong 
act. Tremblingly she raised her eyes to the calm, clear ones 
searchingly gazing into her face. 

“You have been ill, my boy?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Your bravery is greater than your strength. Before I tell 
you what I wish to do for you in return for your services, I will 
read the message you bring. In the meantime go outside, my 
servant will give you wine.” 

Thankful for this respite, Debby stumbled from the room. 
The minutes seemed hours, and the wine choked her; at last 
the summons came. With down cast head she entered the room 
to hear her doom. 

Washington was standing with a folded paper in his hand. 
“Here is your honorable discharge from the army,” he said, 
and something in the low voice, caused Debby to look up. A 

57 


58 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


tear was glistening in the great man’s eyes : “I have added to it 
a sum which will enable you to make a start in life. For your 
bravery I honor you, for your service your country thanks you, 
and my heartfelt wish for you is that God may bless you with 
sons as noble as their mother. May heaven’s blessing go with 
you. Farewell my child.” 

It was over, and with a heart bursting with gratitude and 
worship poor lonely Debby Mason turned away to begin life. 

5l« * * * * 

A week later in the home of Doctor Bell’s mother a tall, slim 
girl with short curls of brown, framing in a strong earnest face, 
stood listening to a dear, prim little Quaker woman, who was 
divulging a wonderful plan. 

“Now thee looks sweet and womanly, Deborah. Thy locks 
will grow and thee must try to brush out some of the curl.” 

“Oh! mother,” laughed her son coming in the room, “can 
you not spare the curl ?” 

“Nay, son, Deborah will be a happier woman, if her looks are 
not so unusual. And in a fortnight thee and I will go to thy 
people in England, the Spirit tells me that there thee will find 
peace and rest.” 

“But I will come back to my own land, my own dear coun- 
try !” Debby’s clear voice had not been toned down as much as 
her appearance; “I will come back to America. What was all 
the good of — of my suffering — and fighting — if I go away just 
as the glory is beginning?” 

“Three cheers !” cried the doctor. 

“Deborah, my son,” the mother broke in. 

“Well, Deborah, then, you shall see your people and choose 
for yourself, and — and — God bless you !” 

Debby saw her people — sturdy wealthy folk they were, who 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


59 


offered her a home and place where her mother as a girl lived 
and loved. 

And she, in return, very tenderly told to the widowed 
mother of the boy who had died afar, the story of bravery and 
tragedy. 

“He was your own cousin, child, and you took his life !” The 
words rang shrilly through the quiet room as the tale ended. 

“He tried to take mine. He wounded me sorely twice.” Even 
in her grief poor Debby tried to defend herself as she had 
always done in her honest fashion ; “and he — took — my father 
from — me !” 

The black robed figure straightened at the words and the 
empty arms outstretched to the shrinking girl : 

“Oh ! my child ! my poor child ! do not look at me like that ! 
So looked your mother when we turned her from her home. 
Ah ! lass, had I but clung to her I might have been spared all 
this!” 

The arms were no longer empty. Hungry, starving Debby 
rushed to fill her mother’s place ! 

“There! there! little maid, do not weep so sadly. We will go 
to this new land together, just you and I, and begin once 
again.” Their tears were falling more gently now. “Try to love 
me, dear brave child, for I am very lonely !” 

Try to love her ! Why it seemed to Debby as if she had lived 
but for this blessed chance. 

So they traveled to the land of Debby’s birth, and in a quaint 
old house on the outskirts of Philadelphia, they began life just 
as the troublous war ended and the young republic reared its 
proud head. And into that happy home as soon as they could 
summon him, came that rascal Jack Martin, and he found there 
a welcome so loving and true that he disappointed all those 
who expected only evil of him and became gentleman Jack, and 


60 


MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY. 


a good foster son to the kindly woman who reigned so nobly 
o’er his life. 

And by and by, when Deborah’s face and form had rounded 
into perfect maidenly beauty, and the rich brown hair had 
grown to comely length and waviness, came Doctor Bell to tell 
his love and doubts. 

'd need your help Deborah,” he said humbly, love a 
woman true and sweet, but I fear her. A warrior maid is she, 
dauntless on the field of battle, and braver than any other whom 
I know. Can I hope that in the narrow limit of a home her free 
spirit would find space enough ?” 

There ^^e tears in Deborah’s eyes as she listened. 

“In ' st in the attic,” she whispered softly, “is a tattered 
suit, ar. id drum, and an army discharge. I know a maid, who, 
when her blood runs hotly, goes and kneels beside that chest. 
When she sees the drum, her hearts throbs until it almost 
chokes her. When she sees the discharge she bows her head in 
proud memory of on" most truly to be revered and honored — 
but when she sees the olood stained suit her strength goes from 
her, and she only remembers one who led her from dark to 
light, from danger to safety.” 

“Deborah! is my home, then, wide enough for my sweet 
soldier maid ?” 

“Aye, ’tis as wide as life, as deep as love, and as high as 
heaven !” 

So hand in hand they went to tell their story to loving wait- 
ing hearts. 




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0005435^484 




